


First Lady

by frigate



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: F/F, Fluff, HS AU, female!derek, female!stiles, ridiculous teens being ridiculous
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-22
Updated: 2020-11-22
Packaged: 2021-03-10 06:53:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,994
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27669139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/frigate/pseuds/frigate
Summary: Stiles is too intense for her own good. Derek doesn’t seem to get it, until suddenly she does.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	First Lady

It’s all part of Stiles’ master plan: perfect GPA, Homecoming Court, Harvard, and then onto presidency at age 35.  
She told Scott when they were seven, the first day they met, over a handshake and traded lunch cookies: “I’m gonna be president one day.” She’d just lost both her front teeth two days before, so everything was kind of lisped, but she was still serious, still meant it.  
They became best friends because Scott said, “I mean, I’ll vote for you,” and then, “Cookie?” and from then on it was all systems go: lunch and studying and video games on the weekends, which Stiles scheduled in between doctors’ visits to her mom, and then her mom died and nothing really changed except there were no more doctors’ visits to schedule it around, and so she invented other things: clubs and student debate and chem projects, campaigning for class president in eighth grade and losing to Lydia Martin, Scott and his asthma attacks and her dad’s visits to a nutritionist, which Stiles insisted on after he had a heart attack two years after her mom died, solving the Hale case, and it was fine, it was her life: she had it perfectly under control.  
Then stupid fucking Derek Hale moved back home and everything went to shit. 

“— Trying to ruin my life, I swear,” Stiles rants, pacing her floor. Dad’s not home, so she can yell as loud as she likes, and she likes, so she adds for emphasis: “I mean, who does she even think she is?”  
Lydia swivels around in Stile’s desk chair. Her hair is bright red and her fingernails are, too, and the way she clacks them on the desk shouldn’t be soothing but inexplicably is. “The heiress to Beacon Hills’s resident rich family and the only reason this town is on the map? Stiles, the Hales founded this town. Homecoming Court is practically Derek Hale’s birthright.”  
Stiles stares at her for a moment and then flops dramatically onto her bed, splayed wide. Scott scoots back, homework barely saved from the uncertain fate of falling to the floor.  
“I know,” she groans, finally, ignoring Lydia’s muttered ‘i told you so’ from somewhere to her left. Instead, she props herself up on one elbow and glares at Scott. “It’s unfair, though, right? Like— all this is classist and unfair and ridiculous.”  
Scott furrows his delightfully adorable brow. “Can I beat her up for you?”  
“No,” Stiles groans, shoving her face onto Scott’s knee; he brings a hand down to stroke absently at her hair. “But thanks. You’re the best.”  
“Anything for you, my sweet,” he says, and she laughs: it’ a running joke between them, that when she’s president he’ll be first gentleman, because it would be perfect except in all the ways it isn’t. All the ways that Scott doesn’t know about, especially.  
Lydia says, “Pouting about it isn’t going to help; what is going to help is this,” and she tilts her computer screen in Stiles’ direction.  
Stiles lifts her head and says, “Lydia you’re a genius,” and Lydia smiles like she’s won because she perpetually has. 

They pass out the flyers on Monday, during lunch. Start at the fringes of the cafeteria, move inward slowly: anyone with pink hair or a rainbow pin gets one shoved into their hands, willing or not, and if they’re not, Stiles sets Scott on them, talking about how important it is, and how he knows it really matters, and nobody wants anything like what happened with the Hales to happen again—  
Stiles turns, smirking success, and runs into a pair of folded arms.  
She looks up at Derek Hale, a frown on that full mouth, a furrow between those two perfectly thick brows.  
“Stilinski,” she says, and it’s the first thing she’s said to Stiles since her return— she just showed up this summer, hot and smart and ready to ruin Stiles’ life, and yet they have not spoken a word.  
It’s not like they were friends, before, but still. “Hale,” Stiles replies, returning the glower with the most shit-eating grin she can muster and slapping a poster across Hale’s chest. It‘s a known fact that Derek Hale thinks conversation equates to one-word responses and frowns, and Stiles is more than ready to wind her up until she cracks and throws a punch, or something. Derek is a sport star, queen of lacrosse, and she got kicked out because she beat up Jackson Whittemore two years ago for some reason. Some mysterious reason that is not at all intriguing, because Stiles, unequivocally, does not have time for this. “Care to join?”  
Hale peels the poster off of her boobs— Stiles takes a few steps back. She hadn’t realized they were so close; then again, she had been rather focused on leaving. Or something.  
Whatever. Now she’s focused on this: making Derek Hale so red she can imagine the steam rising out of her ears, which is definitely fair play for what Hale’s done to her: returning to Beacon Hills three years after the fact tall, hot, and a sudden star of the lacrosse team.  
They’re doing this, SGA, to destabilize Hale, to undercut her, to win— and so Stiles doesn’t expect it at all when Hale raises thick, sarcastic eyebrows and says, “I’d be happy to come. Glad to see you’ve grown up, Stilinski,” and smirks at her before turning on her heel and wafting away.  
Stiles watches Hale go sit with the other Adidas-clad rich-kid athletes, snaps her mouth shut, and feels her blood begin to boil.

The first SGA meeting is held in the art room, and it would be a smashing success, if not for Derek Hale standing like a pillar of doom in the back by the kiln. Stiles can’t help sneaking looks at her during her welcome speech, but as soon as she wraps up the whole spiel— “and, clearly, the only thing not welcome is heteronormative bullshit, thank you all for coming,”— Lydia pulls her aside and says, “Keep it together, Stilinski,” so it doesn’t matter. Lydia noticed, but if she’s warning Stiles instead of chewing her out, it means nobody else has.  
Scott, there for moral support and the S part of the SGA, is over by the donuts, laughing with some brunette who is frighteningly out of his league. Stiles feels almost sorry for him, but he’s digging his own grave.  
Lydia says, “Maybe we should have advertised it as a Singles Meet-Up.”  
Danny Mahealani, who overhears everything, grins at them both and salutes with a don’t before diving back into conversation with one of the lacrosse players that Stiles has never bothered to keep an eye on because Scott has always secured the lacrosse team’s vote for her.  
But Derek Hale is also here, standing in the corner, and oh, yeah— that’s why they’re doing this in the first place. Because Little Miss Perfect came back and is ruining everything. Everyone likes sporty, hot girls. The lacrosse team’s already all over her; Stiles knows for a fact she’s been asked out by three guys already.  
Stiles has never been asked out. She knows she’s an acquired taste. She knows she’s intimidating. It’s a problem, but that’s what campaigns and instagram filters are for.  
Honestly, fuck Derek Hale for not needing an instagram filter.  
“This is bad,” Stiles says to Lydia. Lydia raises her eyebrows and purses her red lips. “I’d disagree, but okay I’ll bite— why?”  
In answer, Stiles nods to Derek Hale, not just still standing in the room, but also talking and laughing with some sophomore whose name Stiles can’t remember right now but who she knows for a fact had a crush on Stiles herself last year. She is currently laughing at Derek, and leaning forward and—  
“She’s thrusting her boobs out,” Lydia says in a voice of abject horror. Stiles nods, fascinated in a disgusted sort of way. “And she’s— was that a—“  
“Oh, that was a muscle touch,” Stiles says, gagging slightly. “Oh, that was definitely a muscle touch. Ugh.”  
“I am… disgusted,” Lydia announces, and Stiles says, “Absolutely revolting,” laughing, and it’s just slightly too loud.  
It’s not like everyone hears her, but— Derek Hale looks up and shoots her an unreadable look. Stiles stares back, because it’s not like she’s going to back down— and Hale gives her another of those infuriating smirks and walks out, leaving the sophomore to gaze longingly at her back, or maybe her ass— probably her ass.  
“This is gonna be a problem, isn’t it,” Stiles mutters to Lydia, and Lydia says, “I’m gonna get a donut,” and that’s how Stiles knows they’re doomed.

“This is war,” Lydia confirms, a week later, and passes Stiles her phone: Instagram is, as far as Stiles’ thumb can slide, just photos and videos and endless, endless captions about #BeaconHillsLacrosseTeamMovieNight, Derek center of every pic, and Stiles is going to throw up, she is. And then she’s going to find Derek Hale and sock her in the mouth.  
“It’s not even a good caption,” she moans at Lydia, shoving popcorn in her face. Scott is manning the concession stand (with Mysterious Brunette, whose name is apparently Allison, and with whom Scott is clearly in love, Stiles is gonna have to find herself a different First Gentleman) and he’s gotten them free snacks. Stiles knows it’s a pity bag of popcorn, but she can’t bring herself to stop eating it.  
“And yet here we are,” Lydia says, eyeing a group of quarterbacks laughing by somebody’s fantastically expensive camaro, “And here everyone else is. You know what? I’m gonna go do some campaigning.”  
“Okay, but it has to be subtle,” Stiles calls at her back between mouthfuls. “You have to woo them, they can’t know it’s a campaign—“  
“She’s clearly ignoring you,” says a husky voice, and Stiles jumps about a foot in the air. “Why do you keep trying?”  
“For your information, a—“ Stiles stops short, because: Derek Hale is standing in front of her, muscled arms crossed, long hair tossed back in a haphazard ponytail, oversized sweatshirt over adidas tracksuit pants under a too-big jean jacket, all lit up by the twilight and the fairy lights some genius on the lacrosse team thought to string up. She looks like an advertisement for everything Stiles has ever wanted, has ever aspired to. She looks effortless.  
Even her forearms are toned. Stiles wants to die.  
“Were you about to call me an asshole? Is that what was happening here?” She’s grinning, and it’s so smug, like she already knows she’s won.  
Stiles snorts. “That’s so far from what’s happening here, you have no idea.”  
“Really?” Hale leans forward. There’s something amused playing out on the edges of her mouth, and Stiles could so grab her face right now and just— “Because it looks like you taking out your relationship issues on me. Hate to break it to you, honey, but Lydia seems far more interested in Whittemore than you right now, so why don’t—“  
“She’s doing it for me, you asshole!” Stiles hisses. “And you know what, this is exactly what I didn’t want, you showing up and— and—“  
“And what?” Hale demands, eyebrows all the way up, face an inch from Stiles’ own.  
“And— messing everything up!” Stiles snaps. At that, Hale steps back, clearly surprised at Stile’s fantastic comeback, because Stiles is fantastic, and Stiles whirls on her heel (she’s got on converse she’s had since eighth grade, because a) she hasn’t grown and b) not everybody has so much money to burn as Derek fucking Hale and c) they’re this fabulous teal color that was somehow discontinued) and stomps over to the picnic blanket Lydia has set up for the movie.  
It’s a romcom and Stiles has to cry at the end. She hates everything.

From there, it is war: cupcake drives and hours spent icing red velvets, only to be outdone by Hale’s car wash, ostensibly to raise money for the lacrosse team, but clearly actually another popularity ploy— shirtless and sudsy in just her bikini top and far too-short jean shorts; Stiles drives by, to check out the competition, and mutters to Lydia, “Aren’t they going to think that’s a bit— slutty?”  
“Isn’t our campaign anti-slut shaming?” Lydia replies, typing idly at her phone, and then she looks up and slides her sunglasses down her nose. “My. Jackson Whittemore’s gotten cute, don’t you think?”  
Stiles sends her an incredulous look that Lydia readily ignores and hits the gas, and she swears Hale gives them a mocking little wave as gravel squeals beneath their tires.

The real hit comes the Thursday before the first lacrosse game.  
At lunch, Scott says, “I invited Allison to the game tomorrow.”  
Because she is a reasonable person, Stiles doesn’t slap him. Instead, she slams her tray on the table and says, “Why?” In her most you-are-dead-now tone possible, because she’s a nice person who believes in explanations.  
Scott looks down at his tray. “Oh, my god,” Stiles says. She can’t believe this.  
“Shit,” Lydia breathes, and then— “You’re dating her!” Stiles says, and it’s supposed to come out disappointed, but instead it’s— happy.  
“You’re happy about this?” Lydia looks incredulous.  
“You’re happy about this?” Scott looks so hopeful something in Stiles’ chest lurches.  
“I—“ Stiles can’t believe this. “I am. I— good for you.” She is, somehow. She is also in a lot of pain. She needs an ibuprofen, or a lobotomy.  
Scott looks so relieved something in Stiles’ chest lurches. Something in her wonders if Scott thought— she pushes the idea of it and the table away, gets up and goes to find something to hurt, even if it’s just herself.  
She runs smack into Derek Hale in the girl’s bathroom and can’t stop the “Fucking perfect,” that comes out.  
It’s meant ironically. It’s meant as an ‘oh, shit’. But Derek Hale finishes washing her hands and furrows her thick brows and leans down and smirks and says, “Oh, now I’m perfect?”  
Stiles glares at her and her stupid face and figures, if she’s going to self-combust, it might as well be spectacular.  
She says, “Fuck you. I’m going to kiss you now, and you’re going to shut up and let me.”  
Hale’s eyebrows fly all the way up, and then the smirk broadens into an, “Okay,” and she hauls Stiles in by the nape of her neck. Her hands are still damp, cold against Stiles’ throat, and Stiles can’t stop the whimper that she’d never admit to, can’t stop, for a few magnificent seconds, grabbing back at Derek Hale, digging her fingers into that ponytail, shutting her eyes and losing herself to the feeling of broad hands on her back, her shoulder blades, thumbs digging into the hollow at the nape of her neck—  
She gasps and pulls back. Hale is staring at her with red, bitten lips and all Stiles wants to do is bite them some more, but Hale says, “Stop it,” and Stiles does, dead in her tracks.  
Hale looks away for a moment, to the ground. Her fingers, Stiles notes, are clenched on the orange strap of her backpack. She’s playing with a set of keys.  
She raises her head and pins Stiles with muddy eyes, says, “Meet me at my house after school if this is something you want,” and hesitates for a second, biting her lower lip. Stiles aches.  
And then she’s gone, the bathroom door swinging shut behind her.  
Stiles stares at herself in the mirror and clenches a hand in her hair and pulls until it hurts.

Of course, Stiles knows where the Hales live: the house in the middle of the preserve, massive and old. Someone tried to burn it down years ago for some mysterious reason that Stile’s dad won’t even tell her.  
The whole drive there, Stiles keeps trying to get herself to stop the car. This is a terrible idea: polls on gay marriage run through her mind as she shifts the Jeep into gear; YouTube comments haunt her as she accelerates onto the dirt road; Donald Trump and his upside-down gay flag float behind her eyelids as she slams against the brake.  
And then she’s there, the Hale house whole and, well, hale amongst the redwoods, all old Victorian charm and perfect landscaping. The Hales have money from the Gold Rush, and it’s apparent.  
It’s a terrible idea. The Hales founded Beacon Hills, a hundred-odd years ago, after Peter Hale— Derek’s great-great something grandsomething— struck it rich. The Hale family then proceeded to institute an excellent, remarkably liberal local government, and it’s widely concurred that they have done wonderfully in their running of the town. Derek Hale’s mother is mayor. Derek Hale’s mother found out the deputy assigned to protect her was gay and fired her immediately. It’s the Hale’s only dirty laundry, and it’s an open secret.  
If Stiles starts this and anybody finds out, she will always stand in that shadow.  
She rings the doorbell anyways, because ignoring good reasons not to follow bad ideas has always been her forte.  
Derek Hale opens the door, nervous.  
It’s almost sweet, except for the fact that Stiles wants to eat her alive.  
She’s got on the same thing she was wearing at school— adidas track bottoms, a plain white t-shirt, dark hair thrown up into a ponytail— but Stiles can see the outline of ehr bra, which was hidden by her jacket before. It’s black. The strap peeking out from her neckline is lacy.  
Stiles cannot breathe. This is terrible in so many ways.  
“Hi,” Derek says, grinning shyly, opening the door wider. Stiles steps in and can smell her: sweat and something lemony, probably detergent. She inhales and Derek notices. Her brows furrow. “Sorry, I just was doing yoga, I was about to take a shower, I can still—“  
“Don’t you dare,” Stiles grinds out. Derek stares at her, bewildered, before a grin starts to creep its way across her face. Stiles slams the door shut behind her to stop its progress, but it doesn’t work; failing that, she says, “Show me your room.”  
“Right,” Derek says, smiling far broader than is acceptable, “this way.”  
The room is, Stiles assumes, lovely, but she doesn’t spare it a glance; as soon as they’re up there, door open, Stiles slams it back shut behind her and pulls Derek down with a hand fisted in her collar, mouth open before they even meet, and oh.  
There’s this: Derek’s cut-off “What?”, the hand she slides into Stiles’ short hair, the press of her stomach against Stiles’. Frantic, biting kisses, and Stiles’ backpack gets tossed somewhere to the left.  
Derek edges up closer, and her leg slots itself neatly between Stile’s thighs. Stiles tosses her head back and says, “Don’t play me, Hale.”  
Derek bites, gently, against her jaw, and Stiles hisses. Derek does it again. “I’m not.”  
“Right,” Stiles says, “Then don’t,” and Derek shoves her hand into Stile’s pants, doesn’t even bother unzipping it all the way, and cups Stiles entirely, heel of her hand digging right— against— and Stiles tells her, “good,” and then, “Move,” and Derek does.  
They tumblr to the bed. Somewhere in there, Stiles gasps out “Derek,” drunk on the syllables, and Derek, beneath her, blinks and shudders and Stiles is—  
Stiles is disgustingly sweaty afterwards. Derek doesn’t seem inclined to let her move, though, hand flung across her stomach, so Stiles thinks she ought to at least set the record somewhat straight. “This isn’t a thing, you know,” she says. She can hear Derek’s heartbeat.  
Derek is calm and incredulous. “Having sex isn’t a thing?”  
“Having sex with each other,” Stiles corrects. “If people find out about this, it’d utterly derail my plans, you know.”  
Derek huffs out a laugh. Stile’s fingers itch. “Oh, your plan to be president? Yes, well, my plan to be President won’t go well, then, I’m afraid we don’t Have the same demographic appeal.”  
Stiles pushes herself up to look Derek in her eyes. Derek, talking about voter demographics. She says, “Are you up to go again?”  
Derek’s thick eyebrows shoot up to her disheveled hairline, but when she says, “Sure,” her voice is husky and Stiles’ ego grows, like, three sizes.

They ignore each other at school, of course. Everything continues the same as it always has, with the only addition being one Allison Argent to Stiles’ lunch table, a development she is conflicted about on multiple levels.  
She and Lydia have a whisper-argument about it on Wednesday. “Announcements are tomorrow,” Lydia tells her, leaning pointedly against the paper towel dispenser. Stiles ignores this and wipes her hands on her jeans. Her nice jeans— she noticed Hale checking out her ass this morning. “Allison is a fucking shoo-in, and so, obviously is Derek Hale, and so am I! You’re not gonna be nominated if you’re not fucking careful.”  
Stiles scrubs a damp hand over her forehead. “Right. Right, but can’t we. I mean. What should I do?”  
“God,” Lydia says, “I don’t fucking know! Kick Allison out.”  
“Can’t do that,” Stiles says, “She’ll win on sympathy votes. Fuck. Fuck,” and she braces herself against the sink. Lydia throws her hands up in despair or disgust, and Stiles looks up at her reflection and realizes what she has to do.

She shows up at the Hale house disheveled, annoyed, and determined. Derek opens the door looking unfairly good, and listens, soft-eyed, as Stiles starts to rant. This is her last and only shot, to get Derek to, to do this for her, to give this up for her.  
“—and they’re not going to nominate be, and there’s only three places, so—“  
“Stiles, if it’s so important to you, I’ll drop out,” Derek says, bewildered, and Stiles— she’s read this all wrong, hasn’t she. “I don’t care, it doesn’t—“  
“You can’t drop out from the Homecoming Court,” Stiles snaps, whirling on her front stoop. “Don’t be stupid, Hale, you have to be nominated, it’s not— you don’t apply, jesus, how are you so dumb—“  
“You called me Derek, before,” Derek says, and Stiles glares at her and says, “You can’t drop out. That’s not how it works.”  
“How does it work, then,” Derek says in this awful flat tone, like it doesn’t matter, and Stiles throws her hands up and grabs Derek’s collar in two clenched fists and pulls her in, so furious she can barely choke the words out.  
“It works like this,” she hisses. “The world is a popularity contest. I am going to be president some day— I have to win the favor of every single American, everyone from Mississippi to Montana, and I cannot do that if I am not liked. You think this is a game? You think it doesn’t matter who wins? You’re wrong. If I can’t win this, then—“  
“But of course you’re going to win,” Derek whispers, surprised, and Stiles stares at her, shocked, and lets go of her collar so she can haul Derek in by the nape of her neck instead and kiss the living shit out of her.  
Derek kisses her back.  
They back each other into the wall, and everything is frantic pulling and buttons snapping and Stiles could self-combust, she could just—

After, Derek asks her out on a date. “A real date,” she says. Stiles says, “Can we have sex after?”  
Derek pauses in pulling on her shirt and glares. “If you behave,” she finally says, to which Stiles grins. “Alright,” she says, “in public, I suppose.” She’s laughing at it, a little, the idea of it: Derek Hale and Stiles, diametrically opposed, staring deep into each other’s eyes over a milkshake and fries.  
At that, Derek leans back over her— Stiles is still, lazy, spread out on Derek’s bed— and murmurs, before she kisses her, “Well, I can't very well be your First Lady without a public presence, can I now?”

**Author's Note:**

> So i started this literal months ago and rather quickly wrapped it up so that i could post because YES i have feelings about girls who want things that nobody thinks they deserve to have, don’t you? Comments are very much appreciated! Love that #validation.i hope you enjoy this utterly ridiculous story that was really very very self indulgent. I mean it made me feel better about period cramps, so. Hopefully it could help you too
> 
> Also they’re around eighteen-nineteen in this, senior year of hs


End file.
